


Are You Experienced?

by onotherflights



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Ballet Dancer Yuri Plisetsky, F/F, Falling In Love, LSD, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, Woodstock, Yuri on Ice Music Week 2017, historical au - 1960s, power bottom yuri, something in the air
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 05:42:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12006267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onotherflights/pseuds/onotherflights
Summary: Mila could have picked any of the tents scattered throughout the field, or they could have turned back and made a run for the van. But then, of course, the story wouldn’t have ended the same.Or; Yuri and Otabek meet by chance on August 15, 1969. Otherwise known as the first day of Woodstock.





	Are You Experienced?

**Author's Note:**

> Umm sorry i’m fashionably late to day one? To be fair, I didn’t know about this week until 8 PM. Then i had a mini-meltdown because if y’all know me…music and historical AUs are my jam. I almost went for a more early 60’s rockabilly vibe, but then I had to calm down (way, way down) and I chose to stay true to my flower child roots and do a woodstock fic. Let me know how you feel about this. 
> 
> This fic features:  
> 1\. About to be a successful ballet dancer Yuri (and Mila) having one lost summer of fun.  
> 2\. something In The Air™  
> 3\. Otabek covering Jimi Hendrix’s “Are You Experienced?” (1967)  
> 4\. Also Otabek calling Yuri “dude” and “babe” in the same breath  
> 6\. A teeny tiny strawberry  
> 7\. Of course, Woodstock.
> 
> ** Warning : Due to the time of this fic, there is quite a bit of references to an assortment of drugs. If you're sensitive to that, maybe skip this one. Also, a few of my others. *shrugs*

 

**_August 18, 1969_ **

**_-The last day of the Woodstock Festival-_ **

**_-7:00 AM-_ **

 

“I see we meet again.”

Yuri smirked at the familiar husky voice, turning over to his stomach and tucking a strand of his long blonde hair behind his ear. It had only been three days - but it felt like he’d woken up his whole life with the sun shining through the many colors of their makeshift tent.

It felt strange, because it was the last day, and he could feel the haze lifting. Maybe it was the early morning, the eerie still quietness. Maybe It was just them. Maybe in the night, they had left their place and crawled through the mud, into the water, into the sky. Maybe they were waking up on a cloud, floating in technicolor above New York.

Stranger things had happened over the past three days.

“You still have flowers in your hair,” Yuri answered as a way of good morning, moving his pale fingers from beneath the woven blanket to brush the white petals out of Otabek’s hair.

“Leave them,” He murmured, catching Yuri’s wrist in his hand. He pressed his lips against the blue vein visible there then up to his palm, over his life line. Then, smirking to match, he kissed over the faint crease that made his heart line. “They’ll remind me of you.”

Laughing, Yuri rolled on top of him, in a way that felt so natural to him now, and gave him a proper good morning greeting.

  
  


**_August 15, 1969_ **

**_-The First Day of Woodstock-_ **

  


When Yuri had first arrived, swaying outside Mila’s van and breathing in the haze, it was about to rain. He could smell the smoke in his hair, feel the first mist on his bare arms.

Mila was complaining softly, her boots stuck in the mud. Yuri let his bare feet sink into the cool earth. Something about this place was other-wordly.  It felt magical, even if it was just temporary. Since getting out of the van, he felt the tension in his shoulders and his neck unwind. There were people everywhere, some of them wearing clothes like he wore. Some hardly at all. Some less than that.

It was muddy and cold and it was beautiful and surreal. Yuri almost forgot, standing right there in the wet earth, that he was due at Juilliard the next week. He almost forgot that he’d worked his whole life for something he wasn’t sure he wanted anymore.

He forgot who he was, and he didn’t think he would need to remember for the next few days. Something about this place made it feel like he could be anybody he wanted to be for the next three-day infinity.

“That’s the drugs,” Mila commented snarkily, and Yuri realized he had uttered all of that aloud while they were walking farther away from the van.

Before they knew it, the night sky opened up, and rain began to fall. Shrieking, Mila hooked his arm and dragged him into the nearest shelter - a shabbily made tent.

She could have picked any of the ones scattered throughout the field, or they could have turned back and made a run for the van. But then, of course, the story wouldn’t have ended the same.

  
  


**_August 16, 1969_ **

**_-The Second Day of Woodstock-_ **

  


Waking up in a stranger’s tent wasn’t really how he planned on losing himself, but Yuri let it happen.

He and Mila were huddled together and sharing one blanket, and the kind stranger who had given them the blanket (along with quite a few other things), was shirtless and playing guitar.

He was burning jasmine incense, the sweet-smelling smoke pouring out of little crescent moon-shaped holes in a wooden tower that was resting on the guitar case.

The stranger, who had only told them his name in a thick accent that wasn’t quite the familiar Russian Yuri was used to, didn’t say anything as they woke, discarding the blanket and stretching out like blooming petals. He just strummed quietly, not making too much noise. It was like he was waking up the earth carefully, not rushing her.

“Hey, Otabek, right?” Mila quipped, interrupting the song. “You got any food in here?”

He didn’t look up from where his fingers held the frets. “Not the kind you may be looking for.”

Huffing, Mila pulled her rose-print shawl over her shoulders and crawled towards the opening of the tent.

“C’mon, Yuri,” She called as she pulled back the dyed fabric. “Let’s find some food.”

He was watching Otabek play, his pale legs crossed where he sat up on a bright red pillow.

“You go on,” He answered his friend, fingers combing through his long hair. “I didn’t come here for food.”

Mila looked back, rolled her doe eyes, and crawled through the rabbit hole.

Yuri was left alone in the tent with Otabek.

He began to unbutton his linen shirt. He figured if Otabek was half naked, he could at least be equal. Besides, he noticed a bowl of fresh water and a sponge at the foot of Otabek’s makeshift bed. This guy had really planned ahead, Mila and Yuri had come here on a whim. It was their reward, their last hurrah before selling their bodies and what was left of their souls to The Art.

“Do you mind if I take a bath?”

Otabek finally looked up to meet his determined eyes, and they seemed amused.

“Do whatever you want to do, man.”

Biting his lip, Yuri let the shirt fall off his shoulders and kneeled to unbuckle his jeans. He’d rolled them up, the bottoms wet and the ends brown from the earth and the color of Otabek’s eyes.

“You going to play something for me, guitar man?”

He was definitely amused then, because Yuri caught a flash of a smile before he bit it back.

“Are you experienced?”

It was a question, a suggestion. Not just a song title. Yuri took his pants off, his tight briefs slipping off with them. He noticed the way Otabek noticed. Shyly, he tucked back the other side of his hair to keep it from hiding his face, and he crawled over to the bowl of water.

“That’s not an acoustic song,” Yuri murmured as he wrung the excess water out the sponge.

“It is the way I play it.”

Yuri let the water drip over his chest, slide down his stomach, then roll over his bare hips.

“Do whatever you want to do, man.” He threw the words right back, washing his collarbones and down his long, lithe arms.

Otabek’s gaze lingered on his exposed skin the way that the jasmine incense lingered in the air. Finally, he tore his eyes away and played.

 

_If you can just get your mind together_

_Then come on across to me_

_We'll hold hands, and then we'll watch the sunrise_

_From the bottom of the sea_

 

_But first, are you experienced?_

_Have you ever been experienced?_

_Well, I have_

 

_I know, I know you probably scream and cry_

_That your little world won't let you go_

_But who in your measly little world_

_Are you trying to prove that_

_You're made out of gold and can't be sold_

 

_So, are you experienced?_

_Have you ever been experienced?_

_Well, I have_

 

_Let me prove to you_

_Trumpets and violins I can hear in distance_

_I think they're calling our names_

_Maybe now you can't hear them, but you will_

_If you just take hold of my hand_

 

_Oh, but are you experienced?_

_Have you ever been experienced?_

_Not necessarily stoned, but beautiful_

  


By the time Otabek finished, the incense had burned out and Yuri was finished washing. He didn’t redress. Instead, He wrapped himself loosely in the blanket he had slept in, just draping it over his shoulders. Otabek set the guitar aside, carefully laying it next to its case.

“You have a lot to say when you’re singing,” Yuri observed, careful not to move too fast as he leaned in. Even in the haze, he didn’t want to ruin what they had going. It was the dawn of free love, but Yuri had been taught to proceed with caution. “Can you back it up?”

“My experience?” Otabek let the words roll off his tongue lazily. “Why don’t you come closer and find out for yourself?”

Yuri crawled forward and found a place between waiting legs crossed at his ankles. He hooked his pale legs over the tops of Otabek’s thighs, letting his hands rest on Otabek’s shoulders so that the threadbare blanket held them both.

He thought Otabek was going to kiss him, so he closed his eyes. He could feel him close, the warm breath on his waiting and parted pink lips. Then, he was gone, the ghost of a kiss stinging Yuri where he had been denied of it. Before he had time to paint signs and begin a protest, he felt thick fingers weaving into his hair. Otabe cradled his head and had a grip in his hair, while his left hand snaked around Yuri’s naked hip, slithering towards to small of his back. Eyes still closed, Yuri let out a shaky, waiting breath. Otabek waited another exhale and pulled him forward so that their bodies were flush against each other, and finally granted him salvation.

Maybe it really was the end of everything. Maybe the neverending freedom that everyone was talking about was never going to come, but it existed only here, at Woodstock. More specifically, only in this tent at woodstock, under a threadbare yellow and flower-printed blanket. First kisses weren’t supposed to feel that way, it wouldn’t be allowed in nature. It would make everyone else jealous.

They didn’t stop at one, or ten. The kisses began to bleed and drip into each other like watercolors, matching the way their hands wandered and curled around the contrasting colors of their hair and their bodies. Maybe Yuri could go on that hunger strike after all — now that he knew this.

 

  
  


_**August 17, 1969** _

_**-The Third Day of Woodstock-** _

  


They were singing all the way back from the river.

Yuri was clinging to Otabek’s back, nuzzling against his ear like a beloved pet. He swung his bare feet as he was carried up the slope of the gentle hill. He’d made Otabek a crown of wildflowers and placed it right on top of his dark, slicked-wet hair.

They’d discovered Otabek had brought his bike on the second afternoon, when Mila had wandered back to the tent, stumbling, to find the two of them naked and asleep while “the greatest concert ever” was playing outside, according to Mila and her new friend, Sara. The motorcycle wasn’t very useful, navigating around the crowds and camp outs was almost impossible. Still, it was good enough to get them down the dirt road to bathe and then back up to where Otabek’s tent and Mila’s van were set up side-by-side. They hadn’t missed the music that day, starting with The Janis Joplin at two in the fucking morning. Mila, of course, lost her shit. Even Otabek was a little bit entranced, but that might have been something in the air.

When they finally got back to the tent after supper and washing, the music was still going. It never really ended, Yuri swore he could hear it in his sleep.

Inside, only a few tea candles gave them the light they needed. Maybe the music never stopped, nor did the rain, but he and Otabek had them all beat.

They lay naked again in the candlelight, the shadows of their bodies cast dimly against the tent walls. The guitar and drums outside commanded the attention of the crowd that was still out there, but they moved to their own rhythm.

Inside the tent, all the attention was on Yuri. It was like that everytime, with the pillows and the oil and the gentle touches. The jasmine incense swirling around to match the perfect arch of Yuri’s back. The noises they made couldn’t be heard over to music, but they could hear each other. Otabek seemed to like making Yuri sing his soft songs.

“That’s enough, Beka,” Yuri grumbled, pushing at his back with the heel of his bare foot. Brown eyes looked up at him, contemplative, and then pulled back with the rest of him. Yuri whined briefly at the joint loss - of a warm mouth around his cock and thick fingers stretching him out.

Otabek only chuckled when Yuri pushed him down onto the waiting pillows and straddled him, pulling him down for a kiss with the soft cradle of his cheek and a fist wrapped in golden hair.

Yuri made to move back, to seat himself, but Otabek moved to still his hip.

“Wait, love,” He whispered, breaking the kiss. Yuri pouted briefly, tucking his hair back. It was still damp, and he could feel it hanging down past his shoulders, touching his warm, bare skin. “Wanna try something new.”

  


As it turned out, Otabek was experienced in ways Yuri wasn’t. It took the form of a tiny slip of paper with a strawberry on it.

Yuri looked at it skeptically, Otabek holding it face-up on his index finger. Of course he knew what it was, it was 1969 for fuck’s sake. It still wasn’t the kind of thing hopeful ballet students did. Had anything he’d done in the past forty-eight hours been so?

“Do you trust me?”

Yuri thought of all they’d done in that tent, and he nearly laughed.

“Completely.”

Otabek smiled, unashamed to show his teeth now in a wicked smile. “Close your eyes and stick out your tongue.”

He rolled his eyes, but then closed them dutifully and stuck his pink tongue out. He felt the press of Otabek’s finger, and then carefully took it back into his mouth and blinked his eyes open. Otabek wore an identical expression, a curious closed-lip smirk and lust-filled eyes.

He waited, and didn’t feel anything.

“Is that it?”

Otabek laughed earnestly, sending vibrations down to where Yuri was sat on his stomach. In retaliation, Yuri pulled back and squeezed Otabek’s thick thighs in his hands, sliding down until Otabek’s cock was fully inside of him.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment Yuri thought maybe it had hit him first. Hesitantly, he gave him a moment, and in turn gave himself a moment to adjust. Slowly, he leaned forward to place the open palms of his hands on Otabek’s chest.

“You okay, man?” Yuri murmured, resisting the mounting urge to move his hips.

First, warm hands found their way to Yuri’s slim hips. Second, brown eyes again found green.

“That’s my line dude,” He murmured, smirking. “You can move now, babe.”

Yuri did as he was told, still waiting for the colors to start melting and the feeling of bugs crawling in his brain. All he felt was good, and maybe even a bit powerful. Underneath him, Otabek looked wrecked. He was experienced, sure, but Yuri was a different experience in himself. He knew it was a lot for other people to carry, he knew he was heavy. If not physically, he made up for his weight in his perfectionism, his ruthlessness. He was impatient, clearly. He demanded that life give him absolutely everything, at any cost to himself, and that was something he couldn’t satiate no matter how many accolades he earned.

“Fuck,” He murmured, Otabek’s grip slack on his hips. Yuri controlled the pace, and maybe he was moving too fast, but Otabek wasn’t doing anything to slow him down. “When does it kick in?”

Otabek was watching him move, his eyes hazy. “If I timed it right, divine timing.”

Yuri didn’t know about that, because it was hard to distinguish the way things felt in his altered state of mind. Not just from that night, but since that first morning. It was like when they kissed, nothing else mattered. Not who he was, not who he would be, only who they were together in that moment.

He leaned down, letting his long blonde hair hide them away as he pulled Otabek down with him, only a kiss and the connection between them keeping them together as the colors began to bleed and spread.

  
  


Three hours later, Otabek couldn’t stop laughing.

Yuri lay next to him, curled at his side and sated with a smile on his face. They were under the yellow blanket, one of Otabek’s hands lazily stroking through Yuri’s hair (which he said was made of hundreds of thousands of broken guitar strings).

The other hand was above them, only lit by the moonlight.

“I can feel the energy,” Otabek was saying, his voice quiet and low. “the waves, baby.”

Yuri giggled, hiding his nose under the blanket. He realized he couldn’t feel his nose on his face. It felt like it had gone elsewhere. Maybe Otabek would catch it, the way he was moving his hand, as if treading water, feeling the waves. The thought made Yuri laugh all over again, and Otabek rolled them over, brushing Yuri’s hair back and looking at him in the glow of the moon.

“There’s so many colors in your eyes,” Otabek said, and even with a distorted shape Yuri could hear how sincere his voice was. “I love every single one of them.”

Yuri just smiled, nodding.

“So do I.”  
  
  
  


 

_**August 18, 1969** _

_**-The Last Day of Woodstock-** _

_**-8:00 AM, thirty minutes to the last show-** _

  
  


In the afterglow, Yuri and Otabek lay more or less sober, unbuzzed. Yuri was leaning up on his elbow, playing with the daisy petals trapped in Otabek’s hair.

“Will we ever see each other again after this, Beka?”

It seemed like the type of question that would be reserved for the last day. Inside the tent, the haze of jasmine was out of the air. Outside, most of the crowd was gone, leaving a cemetery of temporary shelters in their wake. For people who claimed they wanted to give back the earth to the animals, they sure made a mess of things.

A comforting hand rubbed the small of his back, where it had more or less made a home.

“That depends,” He answered in his low tone, his features still blissful and content. There was no trace in his eyes of leaving, only devotion.

“On what?” Yuri tucked his hair back, nervously.

He knew that if he left that tent without Otabek, he would live. He had Juilliard, obviously. He simply would have to accept part of him would die on this field in New York. As long as it wasn’t a part he needed to dance, he would be okay. It wasn’t his nature to accept that something he wanted couldn’t be his, but he supposed that love had its own nature that defied him. At least, that’s what he’d been thinking when they were still tripping.

Otabek cradled his face, jade eyes moving up to meet brown.

“If Mila has an extra seat in her van,” He answered, a hesitant smile peeking out. In the light of a sober morning, it looked even more beautifully rare. “And the big city has a place for me to play.”

A weight lifted off Yuri, and he remembered how it felt to be separated from his physical body for a brief moment. Only he willed all his consciousnesses to stay together, so that he could feel the way it was to kiss Otabek with nothing between them but the future.

“I’m sure we can work something out,” He assured, breathless, and going in for another kiss.

As if she’d heard her name across the path, Mila pulled back the fabric that acted as their doorway.

“Dudes, get out here!” She called with Sara giggling at her side, their hands linked. “Jimi Hendrix is closing out the festival.”

Wordlessly, they helped each other put some of their clothes on. They managed two pairs of jeans and one shirt, and half a pair of shoes. Yuri was determined to only ever wear pointe shoes again for the rest of his life, other than that he would go barefoot. It gave Otabek a good reason to carry him around.

They made it to the stage just as the announcer addressed them as Ladies and Gentlemen (a bit of a stretch, but still polite) and introduced the Jimi Hendrix Experience. 

Around them, the last of the energy rekindled. Yuri could feel it, like a spark in his veins. He had a feeling this weekend hadn’t changed only his life. He had a feeling it would change more lives after they left, and even when people forgot all the words to all the songs that had been played.

Otabek paused to kiss him, like it was for luck, and then lifted him up onto his shoulders to see the man himself crossing the stage, guitar slung over his shoulders and a wild amount of fringe hanging from his arms.

Otabek held him tight as the wire went live, and he had a feeling that he’d be holding tight for a while. Maybe until they got to the city, maybe longer. Maybe forever, but maybe that was just something in the air.

Onstage, Mr. Hendrix greeted who was left of them.

“I see we meet again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, let me know here or over on tumblr! Also, help me figure out what to do for the rest of the week maybe? Yikes.


End file.
